


Roses and Rainwater

by brienneoftarthpleasebeatmeup



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, TREESAP LEVELS OF SAP, sansaery, show compliant but hopefully not book compliant, sort of, spoilers for season 6 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brienneoftarthpleasebeatmeup/pseuds/brienneoftarthpleasebeatmeup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen in the North remembers a rose that was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses and Rainwater

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a storm, sappho, and this beautiful sansaery aesthetic edit:  
> https://twitter.com/THESOPHlETURNER/status/686277610465312768
> 
> i am mourning so obviously the best way to cope with this is by writing painfully sappy/soppy/sweet/sad sansaery, cheers!
> 
> i own/know nothing

She cannot help but gasp. Roses are a rare sight to see so far from the lush gardens of the Reach. It is beautiful, pale pink and perfectly formed, the petals soft as silk under her fingertips as she gently turns the flower in her hand.

 _I once knew a rose like this_ , she thinks, _only mine was softer and sweeter yet still wished to rule the whole garden..._

Raising the rose to her lips, she closes her eyes and inhales, and suddenly she is back in King’s Landing, so many years ago, and it’s storming, an evening summer storm that drummed against the stone walls of the keep and had sent shivers down Sansa’s spine.

Margaery had called for her just before sunset, and Sansa was glad for the summons, although embarrassed at the way her hands trembled behind her back as she entered Margaery’s chamber. There was no fire blazing in the grate, but lit candles had been placed throughout the room, and they cast a soft warmth for which Sansa was grateful.

She’d hoped Margaery wouldn’t noticed her shaking, but she had strode over and taken Sansa’s hands within her own, her face full of worry, before gently asking her what was wrong. And Sansa had blushed and confessed in one breath that she’s had a terrible fear or storms since she was a child. But Margaery had simply shushed her and smiled her quirked smile, before leading Sansa to the bed and sitting beside her bed. With careful, nimble hands she reached up into Sansa’s hair, and begin undoing the elaborate braids Sansa’s handmaidens had done for her that morning.

“Well, we’ll just have to distract you, then!” Margaery said cheerfully, and Sansa bit her lip to stop herself from smiling too widely. “I’m very good with hair,” Margaery told her, running her fingers through Sansa’s auburn strands, gently untangling it.

“Don’t...don’t your handmaidens do yours?” Sansa asked, hoping she doesn’t sound as rude as she feels.

Margaery only laughed. “They helped,” she said, leaning in close to whisper into Sansa’s ear. “But I’m in charge.”

“Oh,” was all Sansa said. Margaery laughed again, and Sansa suddenly felt very stupid. Margaery must have noticed, because she resumed brushing through her hair with her fingers.

“You havelovely hair, Sansa,” Margaery said in a breathy tone, and Sansa blushed as the sincerity and sweetness of her words.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, followed by a minute or two of silence as Margaery sculpted and shaped, occasionally stopping to tilt her head and double-check her handiwork.

Finally, she stopped completely and sat back staring, before reaching forward and pulling one of Sansa’s red tendrils out from behind her ear to make it flutter against her cheekbone.

“There,” she breathed. “I did it like mine, I hope you don’t mind, I’m afraid it’s the only way I know how to do it,” she admitted, laughing lightly.

Sansa joined her, until Margarey held up a looking glass for her to see the artful fashion in which she had spun and coiled Sansa’s hair atop her head, giving her an elegant auburn crown. Sansa gasped. “Oh, Margaery, it’s beautiful. Thank you so much.”

Margaery smiled and set down the looking glass. “ _You_ are beautiful, Sansa.”

Sansa felt something in her stomach do a queer little somersault, and she felt herself grow light-headed. Suddenly, she sneezed, and both her and Margarey begin to giggle.

“I think,” Margaery said, fighting back a laugh, “That strand of hair I set free was blowing across your face and tickling you, once the same thing happened to Ser Pounce and he sneezed into the Queen’s soup….the face she made…I thought our poor Tommen was going to have to say goodbye to the cat, for certain...”

Now they were truly lost, and both of them collapsed onto the bed in hysterics. Sansa clamped her hand over her mouth to quell the noise, and because she wanted to retain her manners. But as soon as she did, Margarey reached out and pulled her hand away, holding it within her own.

“I like hearing your laugh,” she said, “I like watching you laugh.”

She shifted closer, and Sansa stilled, all silliness dissolving, replaced by Margaery's breath and Margaery’s hand in her hers and Margaery's warm whisper into her ear, “ _I like your mouth_ ,” before proving it by pressing hers against it, so gentle Sansa was left yearning for more if only to find out if it was real and so when Margaery pulled back, her doe-eyes wide and unreadable, Sansa surged forward and desperately sought out something that made her soul sing like the seven and echo with the old gods.

When they break apart, everything is gauzy and glowing, and Margaery looks like a painting and even though Sansa is scared she swears to herself that she will remember this, she will remember the soft and almost-shy smile Margaery is giving her, the warm feeling of holding her hand, and the taste of roses and rainwater that lingers on her lips long after.

“Is the smell pleasing to you, Your Grace?” A voice says, and Sansa nearly drops the rose. Margaery is gone and she is sitting in the Winterfell throne, and there are no roses, save for the beautiful imitation she is clutching.

“Yes, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for this kind gift, Ser,” she says, smiling down at the anonymous knight who had presented her with the flower. “It has been a long time since I smelled something so sweet,” she admits.

It has been many summers and many wars and many more moons since Sansa Stark kissed Margaery Tyrell for the first and last time, but she is a Stark, and Starks remember and Starks keep their promises, and she will keep her promise of remembering her rose for many more years. 


End file.
